


down one to all the hopes and cares

by Wallyallens



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Fic, F/M, Friends to Lovers, RipFic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallyallens/pseuds/Wallyallens
Summary: Prompt: RipSara + drinking buddies. A collection of times Rip and Sara drank together and grew closer. time canary.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jemmasimmns (laurellance)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurellance/gifts).



> title from mayday parade's 'one man drinking games', which has zero relevance to this fic, because early nougties emo rock only ends when you let it.

They both had good days and bad days; Rip Hunter and Sara Lance were starting to recognise which it was for the other by a single glance, by a shift in the eyes that begged for company either way. Some days, they laughed so hard and loud with shining eyes it felt like there would never be a time they forgot the word hope again – other days . . . other days they remembered the people they missed the most in the world, and there wasn’t anything to say to dispel the dark shadows that hung over them.

Time was a healer, that much was true, and the better days were happening more often now. It had been six months since they defeated Savage and she learned about Laurel, and over a year since the deaths of Rip’s family. Every day, they thought about them, but most days they managed to _smile_.

But then there were days like today, when Sara walked into Rip’s office with shaking hands, saw the look on his face, and knew they both needed to not be alone for a while. She was lucky to have him. In their own way, everyone on the Waverider understood grief well enough – they had all lost someone, she supposed it was the nature of heroes – and her, whatever she was these days. Loss led to fighting back, and most of them were only here because someone led them to deciding to take on the world so nobody else had to feel the loss they did. But nobody understood the way she couldn’t move on, how it felt like she couldn’t _breathe_ some nights, better than Rip.

“You too, huh?” she said softly as she entered the room, closing the door behind her.

It was late; the others had gone to their rooms and were either having some time to themselves or sleeping, so she was pretty sure that nobody would come by. The office was quiet as she entered, but the blue haze of the recording of Miranda and Jonas had vanished the moment she walked in, and Rip was trying very hard not to meet her eyes from his armchair, looking ruffled in the grey t shirt he used as pyjamas and hair mussed up.

It told her that he had been asleep, so the fact he was here now was pretty obvious.

“Nightmare?” she asked, crossing to his not-so-hidden liquor cabinet. She heard a vague huff behind her, grabbed a bottle and two glasses, and turned to find him watching her with dull, glassy eyes. “Me too. Woke up thinking Laurel was alive again.”

The admission, frank in it’s honestly, made him wake up a little bit, sitting straighter in his chair. His eyes turned clear with concern and sympathy, hands tightening on the arms of his chair as he looked over at her, “Sara, I’m sorry. I - Are you okay?”

“Are any of us?” she countered with a raised eyebrow. Then she forced a smile, crossed over to him, handed him a glass and filled it. Rip blinked confusedly but made no comment, so she nodded happily, pouring her own glass before moving to sit on his desk, feet dangling over the edge and above the ground. Then she looked back to him and raised it, “To sleepless nights with friends.”

Rip looked instantly guilty, standing and walking over to her. “You don’t have to stay with me, you should get some rest-”

“I don’t want to,” she cut in, shaking her head. Shuddering, she looked away from him, tilting her head to one side, adding quietly. “I don’t want to dream again.”

Rip understood, as he always did. A warm hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed gently, the pressure gone before it could be uncomfortable, but reassuring, if a little clumsy as it fell to his side. She was still looking away, trying to blink the sudden tears from her eyes, when he spoke.

“In that case, Miss Lance,” Rip said, something mischievous in his tone that caught her attention again, glancing up to see him moving across the room. A quick prod on the wall exposed a hidden panel – and as she gasped, there was even the hint of a grin on his face – before he turned with a bottle of bourbon with a flourish. “I think perhaps, we have earned some of the good stuff – don’t tell the others.”

Despite herself, Sara smiled. “I’m not promising anything.”

Rip snorted, downing the glass she had already poured for him in a way that made her eyebrows jump up, impressed, before immediately pouring a second glass but from the new bottle. The liquid was amber and warm, so she likewise tipped back her first glass for some of the so called ‘good stuff’ – Rip obliged her, and Sara felt the nausea which had clenched in the pit of her stomach get washed away with the burn that grew there now.

Together, they drank deep, Sara shifting over a few inches so there was room to lean beside her against the desk, legs out in front of him. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, only the sounds of their drinking filling the air; Sara spared a glance over to her companion, trying to gauge how bad a night he was having. There were dark circles under Rip’s eyes, which were red-rimmed too, and he was trembling almost imperceptibly. But she was very perceptive, so noticed anyway.

“You were watching the recording again,” she said quietly, neither accusing nor questioning. Taking a drink, she felt Rip freeze beside her, stopping breathing – then he shuddered, and the rise and fall of his chest tapped against her knees. Sara decided to make another admission, “It’s a terrible thing to say, I know – but some days I think you’re lucky to have that recording.”

“I think so, too,” Rip said quietly, not looking at her. “But – I do worry some nights that I will waste away in front of it. It’s hard to . . . look away.”

“When – when I came back, Laurel told me about how she felt when I was gone. She said that the worst day was the one where she realised she couldn’t remember my smile, or my laugh – and it’s so stupid, but the moment I found out she was gone, it felt like the most important thing in the world to remember those things. Her smile. Her laugh. Her voice. The way she would hum in the car as she drove,” Sara felt her eyes well up, but brushed the tears away with a finger. Enough time had passed that she could think of Laurel without breaking down, and a familiar sort of sadness held her now. She looked down at Rip, who was watching her with a face that echoed her own emotions, and with his heart on his sleeve in sympathy. “I – I can remember her smile, but most days when I try to hear her voice in my head, it sounds _wrong_. Like when you hear a recording of yourself and it just doesn’t sound right to you. I’d give anything to hear it again.”

“I – it helps to watch it, sometimes,” Rip replied, looking hastily away. His eyes were clear, but tired – the same sunk-in grief that let him remember without complete loss of control was in his face, too. Since he had flown the Waverider into the sun to get rid of the bomb, he had been better. He once confessed to Sara that he had seen his family that night, whether in his own head or not he didn’t know, but just that moment of goodbye had made all the difference in him. He was still broken, but he was mending. “To remember them, that they were loved and loved me back, that although their lives were – cut short,” he grimaced at the wording, a flash of anger crossing his face then subsiding with exhaustion, turning again to something akin to peace, “that the time they had was happy. It helps to know that no matter what, those days, those good times – they’re untouchable. Savage could never take them. And even despite the pain . . . I would not give up those moments, if I had a chance to change time. They were real. And I am glad for them.”

“Me too,” Sara agreed, taking another hefty sip of her drink. “I mean my memories with Laurel. I kept thinking: if I had never given her that jacket, she might not have become the Black Canary. She might still be here. But that choice, all those moments before – they are hers. She did some amazing things, and she would have been proud. I know I was proud of her.”

“Did you tell her?”

Sara shook her head, sadly. “She knew. I hope she knew, anyway . . . the point is, Rip, I don’t want to ignore it, not tonight. I don’t . . . I don’t want to not-talk about her, or act like everything is fine. I want to talk. It helps me to remember her – to remember _Laurel_.”

The name still hurt as it tore from her lips, springing up fresh grief, just the sound of her sister’s name enough to make her stop for fear of her voice cracking. It had been six months, but time was irrelevant – some things you don’t get over, it only gets better. It was unthinkable that there would be a time where she would stop missing Laurel.

She felt Rip’s gaze shift to her, hot on her cheeks, so she turned her head to him. He was trapped, unable to look away, and so she continued, “Halloween, before the boat. Laurel, Oliver and Tommy were going to some party, and I was so desperate to go – begged her for a solid month to let me, but she was so protective, she wouldn’t even think of buying me alcohol like some people’s older sisters do. I used to get angry at her for it – I wish I’d listened to her more, now. But the party-” Noticing she’d got sidetracked, Sara shook her head, talking with her hands. “Laurel went in these horrible fishnets – I’m talking the tackiest things you’ve ever _seen_ – I don’t even know what she was supposed to be. Even though I asked again, she left, and I was still awake when the party got busted up and she tried to sneak in through the kitchen window. She was so drunk. And of course, she didn’t want our parents to know, so I made us pot after pot of coffee and we sat on the couch in the dark, talking and watching these terrible old horror movies showing on the late-night channels. We sat there ‘til the sun came up. That’s it,” she said, smiling nostalgically. “That’s my favourite memory.”

There was a moment when she had finished where she thought Rip wasn’t going to say anything. He was just looking at her with those big dark eyes, face full of understanding, and she didn’t know if he was ever going to reply. Just as she blinked, feeling her face flush enough to look away, he did.

“Once. I – er, I borrowed the Waverider for a day unofficially,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, especially at the look Sara shot him, laughing once and explaining. “I didn’t always strictly follow the rules! London was . . . not a good place, even before Savage. We had moved there from the Vanishing Point after Jonas was born. So when he was seven, all he wanted in the world was to learn how to ride a bike,” Rip smiled genuinely at the memory, pausing long enough to finish his drink and pour another. “So I took him and Miranda back to the eighties and took them to Central Park. I’d bought him a bike, and for that afternoon, we ran around the park teaching him to ride . . . he fell a few times, of course – but when he finally got it – his smile could have lit up the whole city, Sara. He was so-”

Rip had been about to say ‘alive’, but the word died in his throat and he fell silent. As his smile dropped, he felt something warm grab his hand, fingers interlocking with his own and squeezing. He looked up, and Sara smiled at him, not letting go. It was like having an anchor in a storm, her hand in his own, stopping him from falling too far into sadness.

“I like that story,” she said instead, smiling. “Jonas – what was his favourite colour?”

“Blue,” Rip replied without having to think. It was something he could almost forget – but he didn’t want to. It kept Jonas’ memory alive, and he was suddenly so, so grateful for Sara. “When he came on here, he saw the timestream from the window and decided that he would be a Time Master, too. He loved that colour . . . I do, too. It always felt like freedom. _Thank you_.”

The last words were a whisper, and he squeezed the hand in his own back tightly. They had rested there peacefully, Sara’s other hand coming to cover it, thumb rubbing absent-mindedly on top of their joined fingers. Although Rip was never one for prolonged contact – or any contact at all, recently – this felt right. It felt warm and reassuring and constant. He liked it.

Sara smiled. “You understand. You understand _me_ , I see it – so what you’re feeling? I feel it, too. And you don’t have to lie to me, or hide it – I _know_. So you never have to thank me.”

“I have _everything_ to thank you for, Miss Lance,” he argued. “You helped me to try and save them, and trying meant so much. You stayed with me when others would have run away. You came here now, and made things – you made _me_ \- better.”

“Rip-”

“Take the compliment,” he joked quickly, filling her now-empty glass. Sara smiled softly and nodded in return. They took small steps, but they were in the right direction. And at least they had each other.

For the next few hours, they sat and drank in his office, swapping stories and memories in Rip’s half-lit office, waiting on the artificial dawn. It helped to talk; they cried, laughed so loudly they worried about waking the others, shared things they wouldn’t tell another person, without any thoughts of holding back. Sara wondered if this was what having a true friend was supposed to feel like – never having to wonder about giving too much of yourself to them, because you knew they would never take all of you and leave you empty.

Morning came with a flick of lights from Gideon, and the ship buzzed to life, bright in a blink.

Half-asleep leaning against Rip’s shoulder, having fallen from on top of his desk to sit with their backs against it at some point in the night, Sara blinked at the sudden offending glaring light, turning over to find his glassy eyes already staring back at her. Their hands were still wound tightly together between them. She didn’t want to let go.

“The others will be getting up soon,” she said, breaking the quiet and feeling something snap. Days were always different; night-time made you honest, it hid you in its folds and let you be exactly who you are. “I . . .”

“I propose a new ship rule,” Rip cut in gently, ever-constant. “No one drinks alone. If you ever need me-”

“I know where you keep the good stuff now, and go see how many historical fires Mick can be the cause of in one night?” Sara joked back, smile soft as she twisted to face him. Absent-mindedly, her hand flicked to his hairline, flicking a stray strand from out of his face, fingertips resting there for a moment too long – Rip seemed lost in a trance watching her, so she nodded quickly, putting her hand back at her side. “I know. If I need you, I’ll come find you if you promise to do the same.”

Rip just nodded, eyes locked onto her. Seeming to wake, he shook himself, letting go of her hand to stand and help her likewise to her feet, awkwardly looking down to tug his shirt down and run a hand through his hair.

“Right,” he said, eyes flicking over her. “If you want to try and sleep again, I suggest you go get a few hours now before something comes up.”

“How do you know something is gonna come up?”

Paused at the door, Rip looked back over at her, framed in front of the ship and beyond that – all the colours of the time stream. He really did look like some sort of action hero, sometimes. She smiled as he grinned, the expression lighting up the dark shadows of his face as he answered simply: “It’s _us_ – when doesn’t it?”

*

Rip dropped them off for a fly-by in 2016, and the rest of the Team left without a second look. Jax was desperate to hug his mother, Ray had heard about some new technology at STAR Labs to enhance his suit, Mick wanted to go see Lisa now she’s on her own, and Stein was practically skipping at the thought of seeing Clarissa. It was rather sweet, and Rip watched them go fondly. It was always oddly quiet on his own when they left.

He almost fell over when he turned around and Sara was still leaning against the door of the ship.

“Miss Lance, you best get going,” he said to her, voice high in surprise. “We only have a day before we leave again. You don’t want to miss out.”

“I’m staying here,” she replied, with a sad shrug that didn’t invite questions, turning it back on him with a cat-like smile. “Can’t have you getting too bored on your own. I have an idea. Come on.”

She strolled off, not even looking behind to check if he would follow. He wanted not to, just to prove a point, but sighed loudly after a second and jogged a few paces to catch up, seeing the smirk on the corner of her mouth as he did. Rip only pouted a little at that.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Sara smiled, and Rip knew nothing that night was going to end well.

When she strolled into the dive that seemed to house all of the Flash’s Rogues and Central City’s seediest citizens, Rip groaned aloud. Every eye in the bar turned to them as they entered. Sara looked nonplussed, strolling up to the bar casually, while Rip determinedly met no ones gaze and followed her, perching on a stool at her side when she sat.

“I really don’t think this is a good idea-”

“You don’t think _anything_ is a good idea,” Sara replied without looking up, but at his sighed response, turned to him with teasing eyes, her fingers ghosting across his hairline, “That’s your problem. You worry too much, and if you don’t stop you’ll go grey.”

“That’s a myth,” he replied, but still embarrassedly ran a hand through his own hair, eyes flicking to look for signs of silver. He looked back to find her grinning.

“Those crow’s feet aren’t though,” Sara teased, poking him in the ribs. “You’ve gotta lighten up, Rip. Try smiling – say, once a week. _Laugh_ , even.”

Rip pretended to gasp, “The horror.”

“You see, sarcasm is _almost_ joking,” she grinned, waving to the barman and shoving a shot glass in his hand a moment later. She clinked them together, and so sounded the bells of their bad decisions for the night. “We’ll get there by the end of the night. _Cheers_.”

“I’m going to regret this,” Rip said, even as he was downing the shot. He slammed the glass back onto the bar, but Sara looked far from pleased when he looked back, so he frowned again, “What is it now?”

“You didn’t even flinch!” she replied, finger jabbing to his empty glass. Then Sara’s face straightened into an expression of pure joy, lighting up, washed blue by the neon sign above the bar. “Oh my god, I thought you’d be a lightweight. We’re _so_ getting you drunk. It’s on.”

“Sara, come on now-”

“We’ll have five each,” she shouted instead to the bartender, turning back to him and beaming. “This is going to be _so much fun_.”

Rip’s face fell, a mirror opposite to hers. “We’re going to die.”      

“Don’t be so dramatic-”

“There will be a fight, at the very least . . . probably a fire. _Blood_ , definitely . . .” Rip said instead, not listening to her as he put his head in his hands, leaning against the bar. “I imagine a death, but I’m not sure if it’ll be ours-”

“Shut _up_ ,” Sara laughed, knocking his hands from under his head so he had to look up at her, and even he broke his facade to crack a smile at the way it lit up her face. He liked it very much indeed when she laughed. “I’m not that bad-”

“Name one mission where you haven’t started a fight. _One_.”

“Just . . . you . . . do your shots.”         

Sara, trying and failing to think of an answer, pouted and slammed another shot into his hand. Rip was halfway between a laugh when she pushed it up to his lips, and coughed this time as he swallowed, though it was because of the unexpectedness, not the drink itself. That seemed to satisfy Sara, who nodded and grabbed her second one, each time making him drink at the same time as her. She did this another three times, until they both had five empty shot glasses lined between them, which she promptly began stacking into a tower.

During the drinking, Rip didn’t really feel or taste the alcohol, but knew that having so many shots in quick succession would hit him suddenly at some point in the next hour. Watching as Sara made her tower, precariously balancing each shot glass on two others, he smiled softly, the intense concentration on her face and the way her tongue stuck out when she was thinking only making the fond expression grow across his features.

When it was done, she looked up triumphantly – but the tower was missing a few glasses to be complete.

“That’s really not-”

“Don’t say ‘good idea’ again,” she argued, pressing a finger to his lips which caused a rather alarming noise to slip free in reaction. “No. None of our ideas are ever good, our plans fall to shit, so we’re going to finish the shot tower and we’re going to _enjoy_ it.” Sara turned back towards the bar, “Another six, please.”

Rip wondered when this became his life.

Rolling his eyes, he obediently put back another three shots in time with Sara, although this time more slowly than before. There was a low churning in his stomach at the sudden influx of alcohol, and the bitter taste was starting to make his throat dry up. He didn’t feel drunk, not even light-headed, but he was slowing down a little, and even Sara was looking worse for wear by their eleventh shot.

“This tastes like petrol,” Rip said, staring through his newly emptied shot glass like a telescope over at Sara, who laughed and grabbed the bottle the barman had unceremoniously left with them after their seventh shots, half of it gone already. She turned it round, squinted to read the label, and then her eyebrows hit her hairline.

“It almost literally is,” she replied, “And when you’re in America, it’s _gasoline_.” Rip snorted and did another shot, much to Sara’s annoyance, who quickly fumbled to catch up. “Hey,” she complained, “You don’t drink alone, that’s your rule.”

He put on a sweet smile and tipped another shot down his throat, “Then keep up.”

“Oh, now I hate you,” she replied, moving quickly to pour another.

“No you don’t,” he said back in a sing-song voice, aware that this may just now be the alcohol hitting him, because he certainly wasn’t in control of his body when he leaned into her, finding everything _extremely_ funny, to whisper in her ear, “But it’s okay, ‘cause you’re my favourite person, too.”

If he were more sober, he would have noticed the way her face changed at his words, but as it was Rip decided he needed the loo and stood, only for the full effects of his drinking to hit him once he was on his feet as the world pitched violently. He stumbled into the person beside him at the bar, who responded with a punch Rip ducked and Sara caught, and the next thing he was aware of, they were running through an alleyway with a bunch of bikers at their heels, Sara’s wild laugh whipping in the wind around them, lungs burning, and feeling more alive than he had in a long, long time . . .

*

The next time, a mission goes wrong and they’re stuck in London, hiding in a wine cellar in 1940 while the Blitz blazed loudly above their heads. It was the deepest place they could find on short notice when the bombs started to fall, having been at some rich dudes mansion undercover before that, trying to find a spy within the guests. They knew it was Darhk pulling Second World War strings again, and suspected another abduction; but when half of the people there were rounded up by the wait staff and taken – Sara had noticed the shifty staff instantly, but Rip had argued that if they remained in the hopes of being kidnapped alongside the intended victim, and finding out more about how Darhk was transporting them from one place to another, they might finally be able to go on the offence. He was tired of waiting.

Inevitably, as with all their plans, things fell apart. The abductees managed to get away with their help, as all the civilians bolted for the exits when Sara choke-slammed a barman and the fight began, Rip barely registering her decision that it was time to break cover, still awe-struck by how gracefully she moved in a fight. He hoped they had held the spies off long enough for the party guests to escape. It was so easy to lose track of time in the fight, for a lot of reasons, but this time because he was watching _her_

It was their good fortune that it was just as they took cover behind a table, Rip silently passing Sara a spare knife he now kept for her in his breast pocket, when all the windows shattered.

The force with which the blast shook the building felt as if it would tear it apart at the seams, Rip finding himself grabbing a hold of the tablecloth and pulling it over them as the rumble hit his ears, moving on pure instinct; he tugged, and the world fell to blackness.

The sheet may have blocked out all light, but it was impossible to miss what had happened. As the bomb exploded, a great boom filled the air, a sound so loud it deafened him, as if there would never be another sound in the world but this roaring, raging crack. Underneath them as they were knocked over, the ground shifted, shaking with the force, some heaving, growling beast beneath their feet intent to swallow them whole. Rip gasped as the air was crushed out of his lungs, feeling himself tip into Sara as they fell, twisting as best he could in the dark so he landed on his knees above her, holding the tablecloth up and using it as a shield in extended arms above his head.

It wasn’t his best plan, but it he was improvising, and there was no recorded history of a bomb exploding on this site to prepare them.

“Sara,” he choked out, as soon as the immediate noise stopped. Although Rip’s ears were ringing from the blast, he knew the word from the shape of her name in his mouth, even if he didn’t know he was saying it until it was out there. In worry, he moved forward to reach her, feeling the warmth of her lying underneath him somewhere, a leg pressed against his own. “Miss Lance, can you hear me? Are you alright?”

A hand clamped over his mouth in response.

In the darkness, he felt her move until she was sitting again, the tablecloth like a child’s tent concealing them now, the soft tapping of her breath against his face. Sara moved her hand, and this time Rip stayed silent.

“We might not be the only survivors,” she whispered, so faintly it was hard to distinguish the words from her breathing, which was almost normal despite the circumstances. Next to her, Rip felt like a blundering cow, breathing heavily, not even thinking about the danger they had been in before the blast. Sara leaned closer, “They were behind us when it hit. On my mark, we’re going to pull back the cloth – cover me. I’ll check to see what’s happening.”

Knowing that to talk again might give away their position, Rip just nodded in a way she would feel it. A moment later, Sara’s hand over his own signalled the time was there as they pulled together, the tablecloth moving to reveal the table still on its side shielding them – but as Sara moved quickly to leap it, Rip felt a sharp sting in his back at the sudden movement and gasped, frowning. He kept his gun up and shakily covering her, feeling a pang of dizziness now he was on his feet, staggering but forcing himself to stay sharp, although one hand clasped the table in front of him to stay steady.

Sara did a circuit around the room, but stopped suddenly when she saw him leaning there. Her eyes flew wide, rushing to him in a moment to pause at his side, eyes flicking to something on his back, and Rip felt his stomach jolt; Sara never panicked, but was looking awfully close to it right now.

“Rip, why didn’t you say you were hurt?” she demanded, almost angry. Her voice shook as she put one hand on his shoulder to steady him, the other carefully probing a spot on his back which made his vision go black every time she got close, groaning faintly.

“I didn’t know,” he replied; it was the truth. Call it adrenaline, but he hadn’t even felt the glass stabbing deep into his back until they had moved. A part of the tablecloth still hung, impaled by it, so Sara cut what she could lose, and used the rest to staunch the flow of blood from the wound. Rip winced, “How bad is it?”

Sara frowned, “I can’t tell underneath all these layers – but it’s not _good_.”

“Well, I didn’t _think_ being impaled was going to be,” Rip replied, reverting to his natural form of sarcasm when in pain. He was feeling distinctly as if he were about to pass out, and redoubled his grip on the table. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sara notice this, turning to her right hand held the wound and her left held him upright, face a few inches away from his; she forced an half-hearted eye roll and tried to joke, but he could see the edge of panic in her blue eyes.

“Hey, you’re not allowed to complain about a little scratch like that – try dying, then talk to me.”

It wasn’t funny, but they both laughed. Rip’s soft chuckle sent him more heavily into her, and Sara glanced up in time to see his weak attempt at another smile, “I’ll pass on that one, I think.”

“You better,” she replied, helping him to take a few hesitant steps towards the door, constantly reassuring, “You’re gonna be _fine_ , Rip. You’re okay-”

Sara was unfortunately cut off from telling him how okay they were going to be by another bomb going off nearby.

Jolted again, but this time keeping his footing by Sara’s iron grip on him, Rip looked up in time to see the light from the explosion fade in the distance. London was under fire. In the skies above, he could just make out the ghostly black silhouettes of more bomber planes.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” he shouted. With a cry of pain at running that he couldn’t hold back, strangled between his clamped jaws, Rip grabbed Sara hand and started to run towards the door. “We have to get to cover! There’s a wine cellar, that should be deep enough-”

“Rip, we _have_ to get you back to the Waverider-”

“It’ll be no good having a med bay if I’m blown up on the way to it!” Rip argued, forcing his face to be still. Through the drumming of his heart, he could hear the argument in her voice as they stopped at the door to the cellar, Sara’s eyes jumping from it to the front door, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. Moving forward, he grabbed her shoulder, gaining her attention once more, “Sara, I’m going to need you here if I’m going to survive. You won’t help by running into the Blitz. Come with me, please – I’ll be fine, I promise.”

She looked uncertain, biting her lip for a moment before nodding briskly. With a look of renewed determination, she clamped a hand over the wound again to keep pressure on her makeshift bandage, and marched them down the spiral staircase, Rip thoroughly exhausted and leaning on her heavily by the time they reached the bottom. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, and the world kept pitching violently beneath his feet, which was frankly beginning to get annoying. He wanted to sit, and _rest_.

“Hey, hey,” Sara snapped, hand slapping gently against his cheek. There was a moment where Rip stirred with confusion, thinking he was back on the Waverider, and he wondered vaguely why Sara was in his room – then the world stabbed back into focus quite literally with a shoot of pain up his back where she was now trying to tie a sheet around his back, and Rip realised he was sitting on the cold tiles of the cellar, towering wine bottles all around them, and that he must have passed out. Sara did not look amused, “Stay awake, Rip. Or I will go out there and get help-”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“And if it means saving your life, I’ll do it in a heartbeat,” she replied sternly, no trace of doubt in her voice as she moved to crouch in front of him. “So don’t make me. _Stay awake_.”

Rip nodded faintly, mumbling, “Yes, ma’am.”

Sara snorted, opening her mouth to retort when the room shook. Dirt fell from above, but the ceiling didn’t cave, although an awful cracking sound overhead didn’t leave the house’s future looking very positive. At the jerking movement, Rip grit his teeth in pain again, the shard of glass still in his back being twisted inside of him with every bump and movement, not able to quite swallow the scream. Sara had scrunched her eyes up in front of him at the noise, but her eyes flew open at the sound.

“Rip, you’re _hurt_ , please let me go get help-”

“ _No_ ,” he shook his head fiercely. Half-blind with pain, he managed to reach out and grab her hand before she could leave. He didn’t really fancy dying alone. Sara’s hands were stained with red – his own blood, he realised, as her bloody hands closed around the one that so desperately was holding her, eyes begging her to stay. “I’ll be fine, Sara. Nothing is worth risking your life-”

“You!” she argued, the hands around his own tightening, but thankfully she didn’t try to take them away. There were tears in her eyes. “ _You_ are.”

“Nah, not silly old me,” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. With his free hand, he reached out to brush the tears from her eyes, even as she trembled and they slid down her cheeks; he rubbed a thumb over them, aware of how clumsy and trembling his fingers were. “Sara, Look at me . . _. look_. Don’t you cry. Not for me . . . Sara, look - I don’t feel anything. I’m alright . . . I always am, right? How many times should I have died? I’m okay. _I’m okay_. I don’t feel anything.”

Sara shook her head, still crying, “Liar.”

“Maybe,” he replied, head tipping back against the wine rack behind him and laughing. It hurt, but he didn’t let it show. There was a tiredness creeping steadily over him. “But you’re here, so I know I’ll be alright. I won’t be alone . . . just . . . just sit with me. Please.”

The wound had slowed in its bleeding, although he had lost just enough to be woozy and was in enough pain to feel a breath away from passing out, which must have showed, for Sara nodded, sliding into place on his right. Side to side, backs against very expensive bottles of wine and both trying to ignore the hitch in Rip’s every breath, and the blood on their hands. Sara took his hand again when she sat. It felt right.

For about ten minutes, they sat that way, just listening to the distant sounds of chaos up above, occasionally distracted by the dust falling from the roof of the cellar every time a bomb dropped too near.

Then Sara let out a long sigh, grabbed a bottle from the rack behind her, and popped it open. Putting it to her lips, she chugged straight from the bottle, for a considerable amount of time, before leaning back with a slightly more relaxed expression.

Rip turned to her. “Really?”

“It’s only going to waste down here, and there’s bombs dropping, and I’m stressed,” she replied, “So yes, really.”

“You could at least share,” he replied, “Remember the rules.”

“You’re literally bleeding out on the floor.”

“So I’m long-due some pain relief, I agree,” Rip countered flippantly, taking the bottle and swigging before she could protest. It was good wine, he knew enough to appreciate that – probably horrendously expensive and old and meant to be savoured. He chugged it like cheap liquor, and Sara did the same, turning the bottle over in her hands to study it curiously.

“1903 . . . nice, I suppose. If I knew anything about wine I bet I’d think that was great,” she mused, sipping again thoughtfully, “Mnnnn . . . grapes. I mean really, what is wine supposed to taste like?”

“Compared to the – ahem – gasoline,” Rip chose the word pointedly, remembering their last night out: they had ended up hiding in a warehouse which just so happened to be the local gangs meeting place; they’d fought and ran a lot that night, “That you usually drink, it tastes delightful.”

“Like you don’t love the cheapest, nastiest whiskey you can find because it reminds you of the Old West,” Sara argued, waving a finger in his face superiorly. “Don’t play that game with me, Hunter.”

“Give that here if you don’t like it,” he laughed, taking the bottle. He pulled from the bottle until Sara snatched it back, sighing contently after a while of passing it back and forth as the alcohol dulled his senses, the pain fading to the background of his mind. “We need to do this more often.”

Sara leaned over, checking his temperature with the back of his hand, “Almost die?”

“We do that anyways,” he replied, shaking his head. “No. _This_. Just . . . sit around. Talk. Not be . . .”

“What?”                                                                  

“Us,” he replied. “Just us.”

Sara looked up at him, corner of her lip twitching up and eyes soft. She nodded gently, taking the bottle and linking her arm through his, head against the rack with golden hair bobbing with the movement, having come unpinned in the fight. Sara had two smiles: the wild, fierce grin that was full of fight that lit her up like a firework, quick to burn out; and the soft, slow one she gave him sometimes, a simple crease of lips, honest and steady as a candle, consistently bringing light. Rip was earnest in his confession, half-woozy from blood loss and half-lightheaded from just a few gulps of wine because of that, and thought there was nothing he would like more in the world than to sit and talk with her, especially when she was giving him one of those secret smiles.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I vote we made a new rule: no one drinks alone, and we drink together at least once a month. No costumes, no enemies, no fighting-” At Rip’s loud scoff at that, she amended, “Okay, no fighting super-villains; idiots at bars only. You know what I mean. And we just go somewhere, sit, and let it all go for a bit. How does that sound to you, Captain?”

Rip smiled weakly, “Like a dream.”

Sara had just opened her mouth to reply when the roof caved in. Dust billowed around them, then through that murky darkness came a bright light – Ray emerged, shining and grinning at them.

“Hey, guys,” The Atom said, “We wondered where you’d got to. I came to find you.”

“Thank God,” Sara breathed, on her feet in a second. She addressed Ray quickly and crisply, “Rip’s hurt, we need to get him to the Waverider now.”

Ray’s eyes flipped to Rip in concern, he raised a bloody hand in greeting alongside a weak smile. Instantly, the Atom’s smile faded to a look of seriousness, nodding as he landed beside them. He put a hand to his ear to use his communicator, “Atom to Waverider. We need you to get to my location. Captain Hunter’s hurt.”

Someone must have spoken on the other end, for Ray nodded a minute later and spoke again: “Copy. See you in a few.” Then he turned to them and confirmed, “The drop ship's on the way, Jax is with her.”

“Oh, thank god,” Sara said loudly. She collapsed again beside Rip, taking the bottle of wine from his hands and chugging it for over a minute. When she passed it back, it was empty. Rip looked from the bottle to her, and Sara shrugged. “Don’t _ever_ scare me like that again.”

Rip, woozy and smiling, nodded one last time. “Yes ma’am.”

*

That little adventure left Rip in the med bay for two days. He was never a good patient, something Gideon knew already, for she sedated him upon arrival and kept him out cold until he was fully healed; he put that decision down to too many times leaving and then passing out somewhere when he did finally wake. Martin was in the room, and looked over with a surprised smile when Rip came around with a groggy groan.

“Ah, Captain,” Martin smiled, crossing over to him and putting a hand out to steady Rip as the captain sat too quickly, swinging his legs over the side of the chair. “Steady now. It’s good to see you finally awake, but you don’t want to over-do it.”

“What happened?” Rip asked.

“You lost about two-and-a-half pints of blood and passed out on the way here,” Stein answered, on the whole cheerful. “That was two days ago. You’ve been here ever since.”

“I should have woken up . . .” Rip looked confused before blinking up, asking in a louder voice. “Gideon? Did you drug me?”

The AI replied simply. “Yes, Captain.”

Rip sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He wasn’t surprised; he felt rested, oddly, which he hadn’t in a long time. Although slightly stiff and with a mild headache brewing, he felt fine, putting a hand to his side and feeling not even the trace of a scar where the glass had been. As he checked himself, Martin stood nearby, and spoke so suddenly Rip jumped.

“The others will be glad to hear you’re awake – you just missed Miss Lance, in fact. She’s been here almost the entire time.”

“She was?” Rip blinked. “I’ll go and find her . . . I believe I owe her my life.”

With a little help, Rip got up and gained his footing after a shaky few steps. Martin helped, with a knowing little smile on his face as he handed Rip his coat; Rip bundled it under his arm and with one hand on the wall, made his way through the ship. Quietly as he could, he half-stumbled through the corridors until he got to the kitchen – and smiled in the doorway at the sight, leaning against it with one shoulder.

His team were there, all of them – Jax was throwing popcorn from a bowl at Ray, who caught a few deftly in his mouth before Mick nudged him so one smacked him dead in the forehead; then there was Sara. she sat among them, watching like he was, but her head seemed far away. He wondered if she was thinking about him. Just as the thought crossed his mind, however, she noticed his shadow in the door, looking up: at the sight, her face cracked into a grin.

Before Rip could even made the joke forming on his lips, Sara was out of her chair in a blur, and suddenly there was a warmth attached to him and a face buried in his neck, leaving him with a view of golden hair and the shocked faces of the rest of the crew. Sara had thrown her arms around him, and she never hugged people, so it took him a moment of shock to return the gesture, free arm moving to wrap around his shoulders. Now, the crew was smiling or looking away. Rip shut his eyes for just a moment, shutting them out, and simply let himself be held.

In the darkness, he cracked a smile, “Shall I take this to mean you missed me?”

That broke the illusion. Sara stepped back, and even as he grinned at her, punched him squarely on the arm, “Don’t _do_ that to me again!”

“Ow,” Rip complained, rubbing his arm as she crossed her own, feet planted in front of him. “I didn’t intend for a bomb to go off, Miss Lance!”

“I don’t care,” she replied, pouting, “You’re not allowed to get hurt again. Or to stop me from going to get help when you are.”

“I won’t promise that, because your life is always more important than that,” he replied, but a smile was playing on his lips again. He could read her body language, and Sara was angry because she was _worried_ about him; the thought made him feel more than he should have. With a glance over her shoulder at the crew still pretending they were deaf and couldn’t see them, he tilted his head slightly, implying for Sara to follow him as he stepped back into the corridor. She did. “I am sorry, Sara,” he said as they began to walk, heading towards his office, “I didn’t mean to scare you, only to protect us both from the blast. Thank you – for saving my life . . . and for staying with me, if what I hear is true.”

Sara didn’t blush, she was too well trained for that, but she looked away and flicked a strand of hair behind her ears, shaking her head, “Who knew Stein was such a gossip . . .”

“I’m grateful,” Rip replied firmly as they crossed the threshold to his office. Finding it was easier to say without having to look her in the eyes, he continued as he looked in his cabinet for a suitable drink and glasses, taking more time than he probably had to. “I . . . it’s easy to feel, sometimes, that I’m adrift. That there is no one left to tether me, and if I died . . . well, I can count the people who would care on one hand.” He turned quickly, bottle in hand, and moved on with all the force of a runaway train. “But you don’t like wine, and I believe I owe you a real drink – prohibition whiskey, ninety-seven percent. This stuff has left outlaws on the floor, I imagine it will put even ourselves into quite a state-”

Sara silenced him by taking the bottle out of his hands, which were trembling slightly. She put it and the glasses on his desk and filled them, but did not pick them back up, turning back to him instead and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I think we’ll make do with your shitty drinks,” she said, smiling a little; the hand moved to his cheek, “And I do care about you. I do. So add me to that list, and I’ll work on proving to you that there’s more people who love you thank you think.”

The hand left his cheek, and then there was a glass being pushed into his hand as Rip blinked, dumbstruck. “I care about you, too – I just want you to know. Everything you said, I feel the same for you. I see you, Sara. thank you for being my friend.”

He didn’t know if it was his imagination, but Sara’s smile froze on her face for a second at his words. Then she forced another grin, and put her glass to her lips.

“Shut up and drink, Hunter.”

Rip nodded, and did just that.

*

Sara was alone.

It was what she needed mostly, and so she had locked her door the night before and stayed resolutely in her room all day, not knowing what to do with herself. She slept a little, but had troubling dreams. She cried some. She lay around, meditated, listened to old songs she used to love, stretched, watched videos on the screen by her bed, and tried to do everything but think of what day it was. _Laurel’s birthday_. The first without her there.

Sara was used to being alone; she had lived that way, fought that way, a long time ago – but since then, she had found her family again, that and some. She had been alone, but she wasn’t too used to feeling lonely. It was an empty ached that filled her as she thought about her sister, and just as that emptiness threatened to consume her whole – the door opened. Rip stood there.

He stood there for a second, watching her, then held up a bottle. She nodded, and he entered, the door sliding shut behind him as Rip came to sit beside her on her bed, pouring her a drink and passing it over. All in silence, he poured himself one to match hers, shifting to sit next to her, with enough space that she wasn’t crowded with the bottle between them.

She supposed that’s what she was starting to love about Rip. He always knew what to do, even if that was just to _be there_. Well, there were other things she was starting to love about him too, but right then that was what she loved the most.

The first glass passed through her in a breath, the second in a heartbeat, and Sara was finally able to breathe again. Rip matched her, glass for glass. There was a quiet between them, but it was not empty or awkward, but companionable – how they knew one another had transcended words, and Rip knew she would talk when she was ready, if she needed to. By the third glass, Sara felt a weight lift from her shoulders; the fourth was salted with tears that slipped free, and suddenly there was an arm around her shoulders.

Sara fell into Rip, moving until she could cry onto his shoulder, feeling the arm around her tighten as fingers began to rub back and forth, soothing, nimble; Rip didn’t lie and tell her things were okay. He understood that they weren’t. Instead, he let her cry and held her, and said only one simple thing.

“You’re not alone. I’m here.”

She felt lips in her hair and a warmth surrounding her as his arms did, and eventually, her sobs subsided from tidal waves to slow, steady rivers from her eyes. Through a time, even they vanished, left to dry and leave cracked trails in their wake. By this time, she was half wound into him, head lying against Rip’s shoulder, one of his hands holding her face, thumb across her jawbone still rubbing that consistent beat. Sara felt herself go still, tired by the day. All the pressure building up through the day in the emptiness of the room had left her, and now she was exhausted.

“I miss her,” Sara whispered. She didn’t need to tell Rip what day it was; he knew. She knew he did. “I thought . . . I thought it was supposed to go away, this feeling like something is _missing_. But it doesn’t. It . . . fades, but I still think about her so much it’s like she’s still here and I forget and-” Sara choked back another sob, “I wake up and I think she’s still here. Then I remember.”

“I know,” Rip replied when she stopped, and she knew that was true, too.

Sara was scared, and asked in a shaking voice, “What if it never goes away?”

“Sara . . . it’s hard. It’s always hard. But you’re a fighter, and the hurt gets better, you just have to – you wait for the day when you can think of Laurel and smile. And then you keep fighting. But until that day, and afterwards – you won’t be on your own.”

Sara wanted to thank him for that. Instead, she begged quietly, “Don’t leave.”

“Of course,” he answered, not even hesitating. “Anything you need, it’s yours.”

“Just . . . stay with me? Just for tonight,” she replied, looking up at him and seeing a reflected sadness in his gaze as he nodded, “I don’t want to be on my own.”

Rip understood. All he did was nod, moving to let her up as she untangled herself from him, keeping one hand on her back so they never lost contact; Sara moved to lie down, and then he lay next to her, returning his arm to its place around her neck. It wasn’t much contact, but Sara drowned in it, just wanting to feel the warmth of him and not feel quite so isolated. Without asking, she turned into him, putting her head back on his chest so she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, tucking her arm around him. Rip’s spare arm, came to rest on her shoulder there, letting her know he was okay with this.

For a long time, they just lay that way, Sara feeling fuzzy headed from crying and the alcohol which still burned deep in her stomach. The gentle rocking of Rip’s breathing and the way he acted like a blanket made her feel sleepy, but she fought it, blinking; she must have shifted in a knowing way, for suddenly there was warmth on her ear as he spoke.

“Get some rest, Sara. I won’t leave. Sleep, and things will look better in the morning.”

Sara let his breathing rock her into sleep, and the last thing she felt before the darkness took her was the thumping beat of his heart against her head.

*

The next time, the dark clouds had moved somewhere far away, and there were smiles on both of their faces. Sara had a drink in one hand and was flicking through Rip’s record collection with the other, judging him intensely. The man in question seemed quite unbothered by the fact, sitting in his armchair and watching her in amusement, calling out arguments in defence of his music from time to time; they had been there for nearly an hour, bantering back and forth and drinking just enough that they were both feeling easy and pink-cheeked.

“Why do you own so much classical music?” Sara asked, sniggering as she looked through, as most of the music she had found so far was Mozart and Bach and Beethoven and other dead white guys. “In fact, who even still listens to classical music in the 22nd century? It’s _boring_. Shouldn’t you all be listening to the Spice Girls and thinking its classic?”

“Some music is timeless,” Rip replied easily, half laughing. “The old masters are still very much appreciated in my time. And I like it because there are no words, just the music – it speaks for itself, with so much emotion . . . it fills the space well enough without being distracting. It’s calming.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never been to a proper concert.”

“I haven’t,” Rip replied, shrugging as he drained his current glass and got up to pour another, topping up Sara’s as she wordlessly held it out to him. He stopped by her shoulder, likewise considering his record collection. “There aren’t many concerts in my era, people were too busy just trying to live to appreciate music, let alone waste time going to hear it live. I’ve always been too busy to go to one.”

“We have to fix that,” Sara replied, eyes flicking over to him casually. Rip didn’t really talk about his childhood much. “You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve been to a rock show – my first one was with Laurel and Oliver, they let me and Tommy tag along on one of their dates – Fall Out Boy. Yeah, Ollie’s a fan – who knew, right?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Sara pretended to tut, “You have a time machine, and you’ve never been tempted to go back and go to a famous concert? Or even a festival? We’ve got to hit up Woodstock on our next day off.”

“Hippies taking drugs and destroying a field? Sounds like-”

“A party,” Sara finished firmly, grinning up at him. “You need to lighten up and live a little.”

“Or we could go and listen to some of my _boring_ music,” Rip argued, lip curling up in turn, teasing her and leaning forward to pick out a record, spinning it in his hands as he crossed the room. In the corner, he had an old-fashioned record player, a large cone-shaped speaking sticking out the top of it. “Although I reckon you’ll like _this_ better.”

He pulled the record free of its sleeve and placed it on the player, striking the needle to the record a moment later. Slowly, it sprang into life – from the cone came the soft tinkling of music, strings pulling like the score to an old movie. It was not like the other classical music Sara had heard before, she thought; as soon as it began in a burst of violins, it was cut off by something that hollowly rang out like a bell, but not a bell – it sounded like a fairytale. The music struck up, and Sara found a small smile playing on her lips.

She turned to Rip, who was leaning against his desk and watching her, amused, until the main part of the song burst out and Sara recognised it, her smile blooming into a grin.

“I know this!” she said, walking over to hear better. “ _How_ do I know this? It’s famous, but I couldn’t say where I’d heard it before – just that I had. It’s . . . not bad, I guess.”

At her obvious approval, he fought a smile to answer. “ _Waltz of the Flowers_ , Tchaikovsky. They use it in a lot of ballet, but I know it because Miss Xavier used to play it at the refuge. She thought it was calming for us, to play it in the house. I sort of picked up the habit from her.”

There was a sheepishness in his smile, and Sara felt her smile widen so far she thought her lips would crack. With a split-second thought process, she made a decision; grabbing Rip’s nearest hand, she took a step back, tugging him with her. As soon as he stood, she took his other hand, seeing the slight panic on his face and laughing.

“Come on, Rip,” she giggled, starting to sway jokingly, “I already know you can dance.”

“And I thought _you_ didn’t.”

Sara stepped closer, taking one hand and placing her other on his shoulder, like the first time they had waltzed, a year ago. It felt like a lifetime. This was all new to her then – the mission, the crew, Rip – now being in his arms was like wearing an old, worn-in coat, and she laughed inwardly at the irony of that with her hands on the coat Rip seemed to never be without. As he obliged and they began to waltz out of beat, she looked up at him and replied.

“I’ll make an exception for the right partner.”

She had expect Rip to blush or look away at that, but instead he turned his gaze right back at her, intense but steady. There was something growing there, she had seen it – she could _feel_ it, this thing in her chest that seemed to sing whenever he walked into a room. Rip being there was beginning to become a constant, not an exception. He was becoming too important in her life, too present – and that was dangerous, because caring about people only meant she had someone else to lose.

But they had both lost too much already and she felt less alone with Rip at her side, so Sara chose not to care, and so they danced until the record ran into empty space.

Rip’s eyes never left hers. They moved, the music played, and they were the only two people in the world. There was something blurry in his eyes, however, a haze from the alcohol, and they both kept missing steps with stumbles, just drunk enough to miss the beat. It didn’t matter: their imperfect dance felt right in Sara’s chest, and those drunken eyes in front of hers were honest.

There was a moment of silence, where they looked at each other just a little too long for it not to mean anything.

Rip was the one to break it, blinking and looking around at the still spinning record and bottle on the desk with only a dribble of alcohol remaining, earnest eyes worried when he looked back at her; she saw it. He didn’t want to cross a line that could not be uncrossed. So instead, both of them leaning on the other to stay standing, he straightened.

“I should go,” he said, but his tone screamed that leaving was the last thing he wanted. For a split second longer, he looked at her, then – her hands still on his arms to stay upright and his moving from her shoulder to cup the back of her head, fingers deep in her hair, he leaned forward and firmly pressed his lips to her head. The warmth was there for only a second, a tender, quiet gesture – one that could have been between friends – and then he stepped away.

Sara let him go two steps before she reached out to stop him, grabbing him by the crook of the elbow. Rip stopped, then looked back at her, his eyes so full of doubt. But Sara knew what she wanted, so shook her head, “Don’t.”

Slowly, Sara leaned forward, on her tiptoes, and with one hand around Rip’s neck, kissed him. His eyes snapped shut at the touch, and he went very still; for a moment, she worried he might push her away – then he turned to fully embrace her, arms moving around her and landing on the small of her back as he kissed her back, and it was Sara’s turn to close her eyes. The past year seemed to melt away in a blink, all of her worries and heartaches going with it – if this was what moving forward felt like, she could handle that.

It wasn’t forgetting. In her mind, all that she had lost stood stark and violent, but as Rip broke away, resting his forehead against hers and those expressive eyes of his asking without words if she was okay, it felt like she could be alright, as long as she wasn’t alone. As long as he was there. Sara, looking up at him, managed a bright smile, and joked with a lighter heart.

“Your taste in music still sucks.”

Rip laughed loudly, and so did she, and the sound was enough to hold back all the darkness in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to Ally for the prompt! It was longer than you expected, probably, but I really love time canary you guys. I'm still taking requests here or on tumblr (currently: jeffersonjaxson). thanks for reading!


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